


Suicide is Painless

by weethreequarter



Category: MASH (TV), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/M, Gen, Hospital, Korean War, M/M, Military, Minor Character Death, No knowledge of MASH is necessary for reading this, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, War, mash au, mentions of adultery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 00:05:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13259427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weethreequarter/pseuds/weethreequarter
Summary: Erik Lehnsherr did not become a doctor to pick bullets out of children. Unfortunately the US Army had other ideas.Stuck in the middle of the Korean War, Erik and his fellow civilian surgeons have to battle not only the war, but also weather, mud, and boredom. And that's without mentioning Major Sebastian Shaw who thinks war is the best thing that's ever happened to him and never should've been allowed to pick up a scalpel, or Colonel William Stryker who may or may not work for the CIA and probably doesn't even know himself.Throw in new arrival Captain Charles Xavier, and Erik is in for a very interesting war.





	1. Welcome to Korea

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been a huge fan of MASH for years now, and as Michael Fassbender is one of two actors who I think would make an awesome Hawkeye if they ever remade MASH - not that they should, it's awesome - one day I went "Hey! MASH au!" and this is the result. I have the other chapters roughly planned but not written - so this is risky for me to start posting! - but I wanted to see what people thought of it. 
> 
> The title comes from the MASH theme tune. If you know MASH - tv show, not the movie - you will recognise some of the elements, however there won't be any crossover characters, just the situations. 
> 
> Some of the characters may seem mildly OOC - mostly Shaw tbh - but that's to make him reflect the character from the show he's replacing - Frank Burns - and because I wanted this to have some of the humour which made MASH the success that it was, so he required lightening up a little. 
> 
> Feedback is very welcome as this is kind of an experiment for me!

Erik did not become a doctor to pick bullets out of children. Unfortunately the US Army had other ideas. And so, thanks to General MacArthur and President Truman, he had been uprooted from his job as a surgeon in Chicago and dumped him in what was affectionately known as hell-on-earth, or to give it it's real name, Uijeongbu, Korea. He'd tried to argue that he was German, he couldn't be drafted by the American Army. But they'd just replied that the US Army was part of the UN Force in Korea, and Germany was part of the UN, so get packing. Less than forty eight hours later he was up to his ankles in mud and up to his elbows in blood.

 

Erik tore off his bloody scrub shirt and tossed them into the wash-basket, then collapsed onto the bench next to his fellow surgeon Hank McCoy. Hank jerked awake as Erik thumped down next to him.

 

“How long were we in there?” Hank mumbled.

 

“Too long,” Erik sighed.

 

“I need a drink,” Corporal Alex Summers moaned, stumbling into the changing room.

 

“That sound like the best idea I've heard all day,” Erik replied.

 

The three friends trudged across the compound to the tent Hank and Erik shared, still half wearing their scrubs but far too tired to care. Erik had never really had friends – Alex joked that he didn't have the personality for it and really, he wasn't wrong – but in a situation like this, where you faced death and destruction every day, you couldn't help but become close to the people around you. Personally Erik felt Hank was a bit too clean cut, All American goody two shoes for his taste, but on his first day at the 4077th they'd ended up working together trying to save a soldier's leg, when the soldier had gone into cardiac arrest. They'd managed to save him, and ensured the soldier would have almost normal use of his leg when he recovered. It had been Hank's quick thinking – and the fact he'd already been here a week and begun to desensitise himself to this place – that had saved the boy. Erik would be forever grateful, and would forgive Hank's tendency to blush scarlet and stutter when nervous. Alex he found a bit more to his liking. The kid was tough and worked hard, and was fighting a losing battle as a man in what was largely considered a woman's profession.

 

Alex groaned as he threw himself into the old airplane seat by Erik's bunk, closing his eyes and stretching out his long legs as he ruffled a hand through his blonde hair. Hank shuffled through the piles of dirty laundry that littered the floor, and gave the tent its nickname 'The Swamp'. Meanwhile Erik headed straight for his masterpiece; the still he had built from numerous bits and pieces he'd scrounged from around the camp in the days following his arrival. It had only taken him that first shift in OR to realise that alcohol was a necessity to survive this place.

 

“Here,” he said, holding out a martini glass to Alex.

 

“You are a saint,” Alex sighed. Hank snorted from his bunk. Erik shot him a glare. “Maybe not a saint,” Alex conceded. “But you deserve a medal at least.”

 

“He has several already,” Hank said.

 

“Really?” Alex asked. “I've never seen them on your Class A's. Although to be fair, I've rarely seen _you_ in your Class A's.”

 

Erik said nothing, ducking around the stove to hand Hank a martini.

 

“He doesn't wear them,” Hank said.

 

“Why?” Alex sipped his martini.

 

“I don't need a medal for getting my butt out in one piece,” Erik muttered.

 

Silence fell on the three draftees, each sipping his own martini, reminded that many were not so lucky as they were. They might be only five miles from the front, but compared to the boys up there, or even the doctors at Battalion Aid, they had it easy.

 

“I wonder what Darwin's doing now,” Alex said, breaking the silence.

 

“Probably sitting at home, or at work. Definitely not spending sixteen hours picking metal out of a river of bodies,” Hank replied.

 

Erik said nothing, glancing towards the bunk in the corner which, until recently, had been occupied by Captain Armando 'Darwin' Munoz; another surgeon who made up the final part of their quartet, who had been sent home two days ago. Erik had returned from leave and found Darwin gone. It had been a bitter pill. He and Darwin had been close, and now he was gone without even so much as a goodbye.

 

The door of the Swamp banged open and Corporal Sean Cassidy, red haired and wide eyed, ran in to the tent.

 

“You guys gotta hide me!” he exclaimed.

 

“What's wrong?” Hank asked.

 

“The mail just arrived,” Sean explained.

 

“I get anything?” Alex asked, reaching for the mail bag.

 

Sean swatted him away.

 

“Dude! I've got a big problem!”

 

“What is it Banshee?” Erik asked.

 

“So, um, this arrived for Major Shaw,” Sean said, holding up an official looking envelope.

 

Erik's mouth turned downward with distaste. Major Sebastian Shaw was, until recently, the fourth Swamp-rat along with Erik, Hank and Darwin, and until recently the second in command. He had been promoted to commanding officer when Lieutenant Commander McCone had been discharged a few weeks before Darwin. Erik's heart clenched. McCone's plane had been shot down over the sea of Japan with no survivors. He'd been a good man, and a good leader. He hadn't deserved to die that way. Erik had respected him. He didn't respect Shaw. His and Shaw's animosity had been almost instantaneous, fuelled further when Erik had been appointed Chief Surgeon over Shaw, despite being only a Captain to his Major.

 

“What is it?” Hank frowned.

 

Sean glanced around nervously. Erik, Hank and Alex copied his actions, then all moved closer. Sean carefully opened the envelope and showed them the orders.

 

“We're getting a new commander?” Alex yelped.

 

“Shh! Keep it down!” Sean hissed. “What do I do? I have to show him, but if I show him, he'll hit me! You have to help me.”

 

“We'll come with you Sean,” Hank offered.

 

“Yeah. If Erik's there, he'll naturally draw Shaw's fire,” Alex grinned.

 

Erik threw a pair of rolled up dirty socks at him, smirking as they bounced off of Alex's head. Sean looked up hopefully.

 

“You'd do that?”

 

“Of course,” Hank nodded.

 

The three of them bundled Sean out of the tent, the younger man dragging his feet, and pushed him towards the mess tent. They found Shaw sitting, of course, with Major Emma Frost - “Frost by name, Frost by nature,” the men of the camp like to say. Frost was the head nurse; a blonde bombshell who could freeze an admirer just by looking at them. Rumour had it that the 'White Queen' refused to entertain anyone lower than a major. And her latest conquest was none other than Major Sebastian Shaw – despite the fact that Shaw had a wife and children at home.

 

“I don't think I can do this,” Sean muttered.

 

Erik rolled his eyes. His palm met Sean's shoulder blades and he shoved him forward.

 

“Ah, Cassidy,” Shaw said. “Any mail for me?”

 

Sean did a prize impression of a fish for a few seconds, earning a snicker from Alex and yet another eyes roll from Erik. Shaw noticed the two surgeons and the nurse for the first time.

 

“Lehnsherr,” he said coldly.

 

“Shaw,” Erik smirked.

 

“Still in your scrubs? It's a disgrace,” Shaw sniffed.

 

“I try.”

 

“Your veterinarian practise is having a charity fun day,” Sean blurted, handing over the postcard. “Er, two weeks ago...” Shaw did not look impressed. “And you got this letter from your wife!” Sean babbled.

 

Erik smirked as Shaw shoved the letter into his pocket, glancing nervously at Emma whose face looked like thunder.

 

“What about that one?” Shaw frowned. “That looks like it came from I-Corps.”

 

“That?” Sean squeaked. “Oh, that's... That's... You're being replaced!”

 

Shaw and Emma stared at him. Erik, Hank and Alex exchanged glances, waiting in anticipation.

 

“Five bucks says he cries,” Alex muttered.

 

“What?” Emma said eventually.

 

She snatched the envelope from Sean's trembling hand, ripping it open with one perfectly manicured hand (Seriously, how did she keep her nails so perfect? Most days they struggled for soap around here, let alone nail polish). Her mouth dropped as she read the orders. Sean took advantage of their distraction to shuffle back until he bumped into Erik.

 

“Colonel Logan Howlett... Assigned to the command... MASH 4077th... Effective immediately,” she read. “I don't believe it!” she exclaimed, turning to Shaw.

 

All eyes were on their – now temporary – commander for his reaction. Sure enough, Shaw's eyes looked a little glassy, but Erik thought it was worth losing the five bucks just to see Shaw cry. Besides, he'd only lose it at poker otherwise. At least this way he got something in return. But Shaw lifted his chin and turned to Sean.

 

“Cassidy,” he said. Sean shrank against Erik's chest. “I'll need you to prepare the paperwork, and move my belongings out of the office and back to my previous quarters.”

 

“Aw, crap,” Hank muttered.

 

“Gentlemen, I need to prepare for the change of command,” Shaw forced a humourless smile and strolled out of the mess tent, a speechless Emma on his heels.

 

The four men stared after them. Then Erik held out a hand.

 

“Pay up Summers.”

 

XXX

 

“Dude! Guess what?” Sean grinned bouncing up to Erik.

 

Erik frowned at him. Sean was far too loud for his liking. He preferred him the way he was that morning: terrified and trembling. And silent. Silent was good.

 

“What Banshee?”

 

“I just spoke to Darwin!”

 

Erik jerked to a halt, his hand colliding with Sean's chest.

 

“What? How? Isn't it tomorrow or yesterday or something back in the States?”

 

“Ah!” Sean cried. “He's not in the States. Not yet anyway.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“His plane got delayed,” Sean shrugged. “I called Kimpo cause his replacement's flying in in an hour, so I gotta go pick him up. They mentioned Darwin was still hanging around there, so they let me chat to him for a minute. He's flying out in an hour.”

 

Erik grabbed Sean's wrist, twisting it so he could read Sean's watch. He'd lost his own in a poker game last week. Divisional psychiatrist Major Jean Grey had one hell of a poker face.

 

“Hey!” Sean objected.

 

“I'm coming with you to Kimpo,” Erik announced.

 

“What? No way!” Sean shook his head. “Shaw'll flip, and what about Howlett? He might be here by the time we get back.”

 

“I want to see Darwin. I want my goodbye,” Erik insisted. “Let's go. I'll drive.”

 

“You have to get permission!” Sean argued.

 

“Banshee, the quicker we go, they quicker we get back, and the less painful it is for you. Because otherwise Shaw will make your life a misery, Howlett will make your life a misery, and I'll remove your tonsils.”

 

“I already had my tonsils out.”

 

“So?”

 

Sean gulped.

 

“Fine,” he sighed. “But I don't like it.”

 

“I don't care,” Erik retorted.

 

Sean squealed like a girl as Erik sped down the road. Which was bad enough, except for the fact that Sean's shrieks could shatter glass. A fact proven after far, far too many beers in the officer's club one night. The road was potholed to the extreme, making the jeep rattle and bounce and Erik and Sean fly off their seat every time. But Erik refused to slow down, determined to make it in time to say good bye to Darwin – and to yell at the man for not leaving so much as a note.

 

Finally they skidded into the compound of Kimpo Airbase.

 

“I'm going to find Darwin,” Erik called, already out of the jeep and rushing towards the departures.

 

“I'll find Xavier, don't be long!” Sean yelled.

 

Erik burst into departures, but found it deserted except for a Sergeant on the phone with a tower of what looked and smelled like cheese in front of him. Erik quickly scanned the room, just incase there was anywhere Darwin could be hiding. Nothing. He turned to the desk sergeant, glowering at the man, until he covered the mouthpiece of the phone.

 

“Hold on. What is it?” the sergeant asked.

 

“The flight to Honolulu, the one with Captain Munoz, has it gone?” Erik snapped.

 

“Uh...” the sergeant grabbed a flight manifest. “Munoz, right? Left ten minutes ago.”

 

And he returned to his phone conversation.

 

Ten minutes.

 

Ten lousy minutes.

 

Erik swore in German. He knew he couldn't have driven any faster, if he had he might've killed both himself and Sean. They would've at least been fatally injured, and considering he was the best surgeon in Korea, there was no hope for them. With a heavy heart, he turned away and headed back to the jeep.

 

Erik leaned his hands against the jeep and hung his head. At least Alex and Hank wouldn't kill him for seeing Darwin when they couldn't. Although Shaw and the unknown Howlett may still yet kill him and it had all been in vain. Angrily he booted the jeep's tyre. He couldn't take his frustration with them out on the army, but he could do it to one of their jeeps.

 

“Erik?” Sean's voice called him back to reality.

 

Erik looked round and found Sean looking hopefully at him.

 

“Ten minutes,” he replied.

 

“Damn...”

 

“Anything I can help with?”

 

The voice was English, upper crust English by the sounds of it. For the first time Erik took notice of the figure in Class A uniform behind Sean. The man was shorted than both Erik and Sean, brown hair immaculately in place and bright blue eyes. Most of all he was clean, from his crisp trousers that still had their crease after hours on a plane to his shining black boots free of mud and dirt and blood.

 

“Not unless you can turn back time,” Erik retorted with no real bite to his words. He may have been a moody bastard, but he wasn't completely cruel. It wasn't this stranger's fault he'd missed Darwin.

 

“Oh, Erik, this is Captain Charles Xavier,” Sean introduced.

 

Captain Xavier held out his hand, and Erik shook it.

 

“Erik Lehnsherr.”

 

“Is there a rank to go with that?” Xavier asked, his eyes twinkling in such a way that Erik suspected he was teasing, his hand indicating to Erik's empty collar.

 

“He's a captain. But he never wears his bars,” Sean explained.

 

“Really? Why?” Xavier frowned.

 

“They clash with my eyes,” Erik deadpanned.

 

Xavier chuckled, and Erik couldn't help it when his lips quirked up slightly at the corners. The man had an infectious laugh. Sean seemed to take it as a sign that Erik wasn't going to disembowel him, and swung Xavier's suitcase into the back of the jeep before jumping into the driver's seat.

 

“Move,” Erik ordered.

 

“Oh no!” Sean shook his head. “You back right off! I let you drive here cause of Darwin, no way am I risking my life like that twice in one day.”

 

“So what's the 4077th like?” Xavier shouted, leaning forward to make himself heard over the wind as they sped through the countryside.

 

“Meatball surgery,” Erik explained. “We work fast and hard. It isn't pretty, but we save lives.”

 

“What's the survival rate like?”

 

“Ninety eight percent,” Erik replied proudly.

 

Xavier's eyebrows shot up.

 

“So I guess that answers my next question; what is the staff like?”

 

“Best group of people you'll ever work with. Eyes on the road Banshee,” Erik snapped when Sean stared at him in surprise.

 

“Banshee?” Xavier chuckled.

 

“You'll soon understand. The nurses are the best at their job. You'll never work with better.”

 

“And the surgeons?”

 

“There's me, and Hank McCoy. Hank's great. We also had Darwin and McCone until recently.”

 

“What happened to them?” Xavier asked.

 

“Darwin's headed home. McCone never made it,” Erik said.

 

“He was a good man,” Sean murmured.

 

Erik squeezed the kid's shoulder. Sean had been McCone's number two since they arrived here; he'd felt the loss more than anyone – with the possible exception of Moira MacTaggart.

 

“Is that it?” Xavier asked gently, not wanting to intrude on their grief. Erik and Sean exchanged a smirk. “Am I missing something?” Xavier frowned.

 

“No. There's Major Sebastian Shaw,” Erik said. “Rumour has it he bombed out of embalmer's school.”

 

Xavier snorted.

 

“That good, huh?”

 

“Walking disaster zone with a scalpel,” Erik confirmed. “What's your background?”

 

“Oxford,” Xavier explained. “Specialised in genetics, but I've worked mostly in general surgery since graduation. You?”

 

“Chicago,” Erik replied.

 

“And how long have you been here?”

 

“Too long.”

 

“Uh, Erik?” Sean called. “Look.”

 

Erik frowned, turning away from Xavier to follow Sean's nod. His heart sank. Up ahead, scattered across the ground, were a group of soldiers, several of whom were wounded.

 

“Scheisse!” he swore. “Pull over.”

 

Erik grabbed the medical bag from under his seat, and had already vaulted out of the jeep by the time Sean pulled it to a stop.

 

“I'm a doctor,” he called. “Who's hurt?”

 

“Over here!” a private called, crouching over his buddy.

 

Erik ran to his side, sliding onto his knees, not caring about the mud. He inhaled sharply at the gaping bullet hole in the belly of the wounded man.

 

“That bad, huh?” his patient croaked.

 

“I've seen worse,” Erik shrugged casually.

 

“Don't lie to me doc.”

 

Unfortunately Erik wasn't lying. However, that didn't mean that the prognosis was good. On the contrary, it was probably very, very bad.

 

“Sean!” Erik barked. “Call for a chopper!”

 

Sean nodded, diving into the back of the jeep for the radio. Erik noticed that Xavier had climbed out of the jeep with a second medkit and was approaching a body. Finishing tying the tourniquet on the belly wound, Erik jumped up and jogged to Xavier's side, just as the man leaned over and hurled. Erik's mouth set in a grim line. He'd noticed the body on their arrival, but made no move towards it. He'd seen the fact that not all of the soldier was there.

 

“Welcome to Korea,” he said, slapping Xavier's shoulder.

 

Xavier managed a humourless chuckle.

 

“Thank you my friend.”

 

“You okay Xavier?” Erik asked brusquely. There were other wounded whom they could help. He didn't want to spend his time babying the new boy, even if he did kind of like the man. Xavier nodded.

 

“I'll be fine,” he insisted. “And it's Charles.”

 

Erik clapped him on the shoulder again, and moved to another patient. He glanced up occasionally to check on Xavier, no, Charles, and felt a flicker of pride to find the man looking determined if still a little sick, but treating the soldier's wounds regardless.

 

“Talk about a baptism of fire,” Charles sighed once they were back on the road. His once pristine Class A uniform was now creased and stained with blood and mud.

 

“You'll get used to it,” Erik shrugged.

 

Sadly, they all did.

 

XXX

 

“Home sweet home,” Sean announced as they drew into the compound.

 

“Shut up Banshee,” Erik snapped, with his customary eye roll. He turned to Charles. “Come on, I'll show you to our tent.”

 

“Our?” Charles echoed, climbing stiffly out of the jeep.

 

“You'll be in with me, Hank and Shaw,” Erik explained. “Don't worry, I don't snore. Shaw on the other hand... Welcome to the Swamp,” he declared

 

“The Swamp?” Charles frowned, following Erik into the tent. Then he spotted the piles of laundry, abandoned dirty magazines, and the layer of dirt that covered, well, everything. “Ah, the Swamp. I see.”

 

Hank rushed up to them, pausing to stick his finger in Erik's face.

 

“I'm on post op in five,” he blurted. “Shaw's looking for you, and he's pissed.”

 

“So what's new?” Erik grunted, throwing himself down onto his cot.

 

“Hello, Charles Xavier,” Charles smiled, offering his hand.

 

Hank shook it hastily.

 

“Hank McCoy. I gotta go. Hey Erik?”

 

Erik grunted.

 

“Did you make it?” Hank asked softly.

 

“Ten minutes,” Erik snapped gruffly.

 

Hank's face fell.

 

“I'll see you later,” he said, running out the door.

 

“You're over there,” Erik said, pointing to the cot in the back corner.

 

“Thank you,” Charles nodded.

 

He paused beside the still, eyebrows quirking upwards. Pointing at the still, he turned questioningly to Erik.

 

“Help yourself,” Erik shrugged. “Trust me, you'll need it.”

 

“Thank you. I think,” Charles replied.

 

Erik closed his eyes, and allowed the sounds of his new bunkmate unpacking to help him drift off to sleep.

 

XXX

 

“Attention, by order of the Commanding Officer, all officers to the Commanding Officer's office, sirs,” Sean's voice echoed through the PA system, rudely waking Erik from his sleep.

 

He groaned, rolling over and searching blindly for his boots. Opening his eyes a little, he saw Charles passed out on his own bunk. When he failed to find his boots, his hand instead wrapping around the dirty socks he'd thrown at Alex the morning before, Erik tossed them at Charles, smirking a little when he jumped.

 

“Wassup?” Charles muttered.

 

Erik couldn't reply immediately. He was far too distracted by the way Charles' hair was mussed and how his blue eyes blinked blearily. He shook himself. _Time and a place, Lehnsherr._

 

“Sounds like our new commander in chief is here,” Erik replied. “Get up.”

 

“I'm up,” Charles mumbled, still sitting on the edge of his cot.

 

“You don't look like it.”

 

“I'm up,” Charles repeated, standing unsteadily. Erik snorted. “May I remind you my friend, that just this morning, or was it yesterday, I was in America. I'm jet-lagged.”

 

They trudged across the compound and into Sean's office, where the company clerk himself was hovering nervously.

 

“So what's he like?” Erik murmured.

 

“Uh... Scary. Definitely scary,” Sean replied. “He's the kind of guy to do spot inspections whenever he feels like it. What if he finds my-” Sean shot Charles a nervous glance. “-stuff?”

 

“Weed,” Erik supplied for Charles' benefit. “Then poker nights are going to be a lot less interesting. And surgically?”

 

“He was on desk work in Tokyo.”

 

Erik and Charles exchanged a glance. This was not good. Who knew how long it had been since the man had been in an operating theatre? Erik may have still been worried about Charles, but at least he'd been working in general surgery before his arrival in Korea.

 

“Before the war?” Erik pressed.

 

“Army. He's a military guy.”

 

Erik bit back a groan. Great. This unit would not work well under a military man – Shaw was proof of that (Erik still maintained he had nothing to do with the snake that had ended up in Shaw's cot after he made callisthenics compulsory. He did not however deny knowledge of Sean and Alex putting it there). McCone had been strict, but he knew their strengths and weaknesses, and was willing to bend the rules so long as they got the job done. Which they did, ninety eight percent of the time. With a barely concealed growl, he led the way into the CO's office.

 

Erik knew – and liked – that he was an intimidating guy. The permanently fixed glare tended to put people off, not to mention the fact that he made no effort to hide the fact that not only could he put people back together, he also knew several very effective ways of taking them apart too. But the man sitting behind the desk in the CO's office would give Erik a run for his money on the scary scale. His hair stuck up wildly, thick sideburns on either side of his face, and a cigar clamped between his teeth. He was not the buttoned down army man Erik had expected to see; his shirt was half open, revealing a white vest. With a glance at Charles, Erik confirmed that the other man was just as speechless as him.

 

He didn't look up when they entered, continuing to flick through the files before him, until Erik and Charles were joined by Hank and Emma.

 

“McCoy,” Howlett barked.

 

“Yes sir,” Hank replied, standing to attention.

 

“You're good. Frost.”

 

“Sir.”

 

Erik raised an eyebrow as Emma's not unimpressive chest stuck out even further as she threw a salute. He bit back a smirk when Howlett looked unimpressed.

 

“Ten years spotless record,” he read. He threw Emma suspicious glance. “Impressive,” he added, in a tone that suggested he thought otherwise. Was it possible that their new commander had seen straight through Emma's trick to keep her record clear? With half of the Generals in the Army under her thrall, it was easy to see why.

 

“Shaw.”

 

“Not here sir,” Frost replied, studiously avoiding Erik's curious look.

 

“Xavier.”

 

“Yes sir,” Charles replied.

 

“You new?”

 

“Just arrived yesterday sir.”

 

Howlett grunted.

 

“Lehnsherr.”

 

Erik gazed at him, arms crossed, making no move to stand to attention. Howlett stared at him for a long moment, then turned back to his file.

 

“Says here you threw a scalpel at a German officer,” Howlett read.

 

Erik shrugged.

 

“I was drunk?”

 

“You arranged a rat race? With actual rats? And... cockroaches as riders?”

 

“It was mardi gras,” Erik explained.

 

“Uh huh,” Howlett didn't look convinced. “Well, you lot are certainly gonna keep things interesting, I'll give you that. I'd appreciate you not fucking around too much. Dismissed.”

 

Hank hurried off back to Post-Op, but Erik threw Charles a significant glance and hurried after Emma.

 

“Where's Shaw?” he asked, grabbing her arm.

 

“Let go Lehnsherr,” she retorted.

 

“Where is he?”

 

Emma shook her arm free, then looked between Charles and Erik. With a sigh she beckoned to them with her head, and led them to one side. Charles and Erik glanced at each other curiously.

 

“You promise you won't tell anyone?” she narrowed her eyes.

 

Erik shrugged. Charles nodded.

 

“We promise.”

 

Emma glanced around once more then leaned forward.

  
“He left.”

 

“What?” Erik exclaimed in delight.

 

“Keep it down!” Emma hissed.

 

“He ran away?” Charles grinned.

 

“He was so upset that they took the command away from him. Which was completely unfair and unjustified-”

 

“Save us the party speech Emma,” Erik interrupted. “Where did he go?”

 

“I don't know!” Emma pouted, all but stamping her foot. “And if you tell anyone Lehnsherr, I'll make sure the whole camp knows about the time you ran around camp in only a cape.”

 

“Halloween?” Charles asked.

 

“Unfortunately not,” Erik muttered.

 

Emma gave them a triumphant smirk, tossed her hair, and stormed off. Still, despite her threat, Erik couldn't help but chuckle. Shaw had run away, like a child with a temper tantrum. He wouldn't let the man forget this for a very long time.

 

XXX

 

“What is this?” Charles asked, staring down at the slop the cook had ladled onto his metal tray. Erik raised his own tray and sniffed.

 

“Liver,” he replied. “Or possibly fish.”

 

Charles didn't look reassured. He filled a mug of coffee, balancing his tray in one hand, and took a sip. He grimaced.

 

“What I would give for a decent cup of tea,” he sighed.

 

“You'll have a long wait,” Erik said, leading the way to the table where Hank and Alex were eating.

 

“Long wait for what?” Alex asked.

 

“Tea,” Charles explained.

 

Alex snorted.

 

“You'll be lucky.”

 

“Any sign of Shaw yet?” Hank asked.

 

Although Erik and Charles had kept the knowledge of Shaw's disappearing act to themselves, the rest of the camp couldn't fail to notice he wasn't here. Howlett hadn't mentioned the absence of his second in command yet, but then again, the man did little more than grunt. Something Sean's constant look of terror could attest to. Not to mention the fact that Sean hadn't had a joint in forty eight hours, out of terror that Howlett would skin him alive.

 

“Attention all personnel,” the PA system boomed, crackling into life. “Incoming wounded. Bring your dancing shoes people, it's going to be a long night.”

 

Erik was already on his feet, food abandoned, and out of the door. He jumped onto the foot board of a passing ambulance, clinging to the wing mirror as it raced up to the helipad, leaping off and already ducking under the chopper blades before the ambulance comes to a stop. He yanked the plastic shield off of the first casualty, and then Alex was at there, helping him lift the stretcher clear and placing it on the back of a jeep. Erik quickly studied the patient's injuries.

 

“Multiple belly wounds, he's first,” he shouted to the driver, who nodded and took off.

 

Erik returned to the helicopter with Alex, removing the second stretcher and trying to to inhale too much dust as the helicopter took off again, moving out of the way so a second could take its place. Erik lifted the hastily applied bandage from the soldier's chest and inhaled sharply. He turned to Alex.

 

“I'm taking him now, finish here and I'll see you inside.”

 

Alex nodded, already on his way to the chopper. Erik banged the side of the ambulance, letting the driver know he was ready to go, clinging on for dear life as they sped back down to the compound.

 

“Prep him immediately,” Erik ordered. “Raven!” he hollered.

 

“What?” the blonde nurse shouted.

 

“Scrub up!”

 

She nodded and ran after him. They split off, she to the nurses changing room, he to the doctors, both yanking on white cotton scrubs and meeting again in the scrub room.

 

“How bad?” Raven asked.

 

Erik flicked the tap on and grabbed a bar of soap, rubbing it across his forearms until they were covered with a layer of bubbles.

 

“Chest wound, multiple shrapnel fragments, scarring on the heart,” he reeled off.

 

Raven nodded, holding out a towel for him as he flicked the tap off with his elbow. Then she slipped on his gown, tying it behind his neck, and snapped a pair of latex gloves onto his hands.

 

“By the way,” he continued. “Are you free-”

 

“No,” she cut him off. “I've been down that road before Erik, I have no desire to see it again.”

 

“We had fun,” Erik grinned, bending his knees to let her tie the mask around his neck.

 

“We did,” Raven admitted. “But the answer's still no.”

 

“Spoilsport,” he smirked. “If you change your mind...”

 

“Erik, I have a fiancé!”

 

“Ah yes, the Russian wunderkind.”

 

“His name's Azazel,” Raven retorted.

 

“Of course. Tell me, have you told wunderkind about young Doctor McCoy?”

 

“Hank?” Raven frowned. “Why would I have to tell Azazel about Hank?”

 

“If I was your fiancé, I'd want to know about Hank. Considering he's been in love with you since the moment you met. Which is impressive, considering you had your legs wrapped around my neck at the time. That's devotion.”

 

“Hank's just a friend,” Raven insisted.

 

“Of course. Although, weren't you engaged to someone else when we met?”

 

“You're really a bastard sometimes, you know that?”

 

For Erik, surgery was like a dance. Clamp, suction, suture. He knew all the steps without having to think about them. Which was a very good thing, as here he sometimes operated in his sleep. Not the best of practises, but it was that or leaving patients to die. And that was something he would never do. He'd earned a reputation as a surgeon willing to push himself harder and further than anyone else, operating even when he could no longer stand. He was the last to take a break and the first to return if he did. And without Shaw there, the OR ran a lot smoother, with a lot less angry exchanges. Although Erik had to admit, he did miss being able to insult his fellow surgeon. Besides, he had two new surgeons to worry about today.

 

Howlett was his main concern, since the man had been working administration for God only knew how long. Erik had had a quick word with Alex and ordered him to keep an eye on the man. The blond nodded, and made sure he was assigned to Howlett's table.

 

“How's he doing?” Erik murmured, ripping off his gloves as he finished with one patient, the corpsmen already wheeling in a table with a new one.

 

“He's pretty good,” Alex replied, taking a new pair of gloves for himself.

 

Then there was Charles. Erik wasn't worried about his surgical skills, more about how he would deal with the level of the injuries. Erik had been specialising in trauma for six months before his arrival, and he'd still frozen like a schoolgirl on his first surgical shift. So he kept an eye on the table where Charles and Emma were operating, glancing up whenever he could spare an eye. However Charles seemed to be holding his own, and Emma, for all her faults, was a damn good nurse. She wouldn't let him fall.

 

“I'm done,” Hank announced. Sean and a corpsman scurried forward and began wheeling the patient towards post op. “Are there anymore out there?”

 

Sean shook his head.

 

“All done,” he replied.

 

“Danke Gott...” Erik muttered, rolling his neck. “I'm done too.”

 

“Same here,” Charles sighed at the table behind him. With a groan he reached towards the roof, stretching out the kinks in his back. Erik's eyes were drawn to him as he did so, and he was rewarded with the knowledge that despite Charles' small figure, he was not as weak as he may appear. Charles placed his arm around Erik's shoulder. “Well that was certainly an experience I won't forget in a hurry,” he said as they strolled towards the changing room.

 

“You did fine,” Erik replied, before wondering why he was being so nice to Charles. He certainly was never that nice to any of the other new doctors or nurses. Usually he just grunted and glowered. But for some reason he felt the need to be nice to Charles. Probably because Charles was so damn nice. It was the puppy dog eyes. Erik could no more be truly cruel to him than he could ignore the camp mutt when he begged for scraps.

 

Charles removed his arm from Erik's shoulder to pull off his scrubs, tossing them into the laundry basket and shrugging on his shirt. Erik collapsed onto the bench, tugging off his boots to remove the scrubs covering his trousers. The door from surgery banged open and Howlett trudged in, yanking off his cap and throwing it onto the floor.

 

“Long time since I've done a shift like that,” he muttered, slumping against the wall. “Never get used to it.”

 

“You sound like you've done this before,” Erik said.

 

“I was in WW2,” Howlett grunted. “France, then Germany after the liberation, then I was at Auschwitz.”

 

Erik and Charles looked up sharply, both for different reasons.

 

“I bet that was harrowing work,” Charles said.

 

“Makes you wonder about what depths human depravity can sink to,” Howlett shook his head. “Hard to forget.”

 

“I know,” Erik nodded.

 

Two sets of eyes turned to him in confusion. Erik turned over his left arm, revealing the numbers inked into the skin. 214784. Charles' eyes widened in horror, while Howlett's softened with understanding.

 

“I could use a belt,” Howlett said.

 

Erik grinned.

 

“I know just the place.”

 

XXX

 

“You know, this rot-gut isn't bad,” Logan declared.

 

Charles and Erik had dragged him back to the Swamp and Erik had instantly mixed them all martinis from the still. They had the place to themselves; Hank was clearly elsewhere, probably at the Officer's Club with Alex and Sean, and Shaw was yet to return from his temper tantrum.

 

“It's the ageing process,” Erik replied. “We leave it a full twenty minutes.”

 

“Not to mention the pair of old underwear I saw in there earlier,” Charles added.

 

Erik shrugged, and held out the beaker of gin. Charles and Logan held out their glasses for a refill.

 

“Tell me, why does Cassidy keep jumping and looking at me like I'm gonna kill him every time I go into his office?” Logan asked, pulling a cigar from his shirt pocket. “You boys want one?”

 

The two captains shook their heads.

 

“He thinks you're going to confiscate his weed,” Erik replied, retaking his seat on his bunk.

 

Logan snorted.

 

“Kid wants to destroy his brain, I ain't gonna stop him. So how long should I wait till I report Shaw AWOL?”

 

Charles choked on his martini.

 

“How did you know?” he asked.

 

“I ain't blind,” Logan smirked.

 

“I only met the man once,” Charles shrugged. “Erik knows him better.”

 

“He's just sulking,” Erik said. “He tried to court martial me after I was appointed chief surgeon over him. He doesn't like losing.”

 

“Then him and me are gonna have a lot of fun,” Logan grinned. “He's gonna be a pain in my ass, isn't he? Mind you, I get the feeling you're going to be a pain in my ass too,” he added, narrowing his eyes in Erik's direction.

 

“I'm a pain in everyone's ass,” Erik shrugged, gulping down the last of his martini. “Don't expect special treatment.”

 

XXX

 

At breakfast, Alex aimed a kick at Erik, accidentally catching both him and Charles.

 

“Ouch!” Charles jumped.

 

“Watch it Summers,” Erik growled.

 

“What was that for?” Charles complained.

 

“Look!” Alex said, nodding to the other side of the mess rent, elbowing Hank and Sean to catch their attention too.

 

“Ah, the wanderer returns,” Charles said softly.

 

It was Shaw, looking none the worse for wear, sitting as usual with Emma Frost. Emma looked torn between being angry and Shaw for leaving her, and wanting to fuss over him to make sure he was okay. Which was amusing, as usually she was not the kind of person to fuss over anyone. It was the emotional detachment that made her an excellent army nurse, but terrible at relationships.

 

Logan dropped down into the seat at the end of the table, making Alex, Hank and Sean jump, gulping from his coffee mug.

 

“That rot-gut packs a punch the next day too,” he said in lieu of greeting. “It's not bad. Whatcha staring at?”

 

“Our returned second in command,” Charles replied.

 

Logan snorted.

 

“Yeah, turned up at my office this morning 'reporting for duty'. Didn't look too pleased when I told him he was supposed to be reporting yesterday.”

 

“I wish I could've seen that,” Erik said.

 

“Are the eggs always this shit here?” Logan asked, poking the grey-yellow mush suspiciously.

 

“No, actually, today they're pretty good,” Hank shrugged.

 

“Then pass the ketchup,” Logan ordered.

 

Charles and Erik scraped their trays over the trash cans and threw them onto the pile, before heading towards Post-Op to check on their patients. They were halfway across the compound, when the PA system let out a piercing whine, then, “Attention all personnel, incoming wounded!”

 

“You don't give a chap a chance to settle in, do you?” Charles asked as he and Erik raced towards the first ambulance drawing up outside Pre-Op.

 

Erik grinned like a shark.

 

“Welcome to Korea.”

 


	2. Dear Dad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles writes home to his father, updating him on the latest antics at the 4077th.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, FF.net was being an arse and refused to upload this chapter and I like to update both simultaneously. Anyway, it's working again so here's chapter two.
> 
> A little explanation for those who are interested: there are several letter episodes throughout the series of MASH, where a character 'writes' a letter to a family member back home.

_Dear dad,_

 

_Sorry it's taken me so long to write to you, and I apologise on behalf of the US Army for how long it has then taken to get to you, but I guess they're not too worried about the delivery of mail when there's a war on. Sorry, “police action”. But things have been a little crazy here recently – they're not exactly willing to give you time to settle in around here. I've barely had time to unpack the best china._

 

_I'm not trying to be callous dad, it's just how we cope here. I just re-read that sentence; I've only been here a little over a month and already I'm saying “we”. Funny, but around here a month can be a lifetime. I don't want you to think it's a madhouse though – we're nowhere near that organised. When I arrived Erik told me that around here it's meatball surgery – get 'em in, patch 'em up, get 'em out – and he never spoke a truer word. You remember I mentioned Erik last time, dad? He's one of my bunkmates, and one of the finest surgeons I've ever seen. I'd wager he'd give you a run for your money!_

 

“Writing home again?” Erik asked, re-entering the tent fresh from the showers.

 

“Only way to keep my sanity,” Charles replied.

 

“You can have mine,” Erik grunted. “God knows I'm not using it.”

 

Charles chuckled.

 

_I'm not sure how I'd survive here without Erik, dad. Most people find him too cold and difficult to talk to – don't get me wrong, he's both – but he plays a mean game of chess and mixes up the finest martini this side of Tokyo. He's one of my bunkmates here, along with Hank McCoy and Sebastian Shaw. Hank is wonderful, a talented surgeon and a friendly if a little shy fellow. Shaw on the other hand, leaves a lot to be desired, both in an out of surgery. The other day I was working anaesthesia for him – sometimes we have to double up around here._

 

There was very little to like about surgery at the 4077th, but Charles enjoyed the atmosphere his new colleagues created. Sure, for the first few days, the callous humour that Erik, Hank and Alex bandied about was jarring. But then he realised that it was the only way to do what they did without going insane. And best of all, it drove Shaw mad.

 

“I don't understand why people take an instant dislike to me,” Shaw complained.

 

“It saves time,” Erik replied.

 

“Shaw,” Charles interrupted, checking the patient's vitals. “Pulse is weakening, blood pressure dropping.”

 

“Well, that's that,” Shaw sighed, already ripping off his gloves.

 

“Are you insane?” Charles exclaimed. “You can't just give up!”

 

“He's a mess!” Shaw argued. “He's never going to make it.”

 

With a low growl, Charles pushed him out of the way and began chest compressions.

 

“Bag him!” he snapped at Shaw.

 

“You don't tell me what to do,” Shaw retorted. “I outrank you.”

 

“Maybe in the army, but not as a person,” Erik called.

 

“Shaw, bag him!” Logan ordered.

 

Shaw huffed, but took a seat by the patient's head and began to pump the air bag. His arm muscles were beginning to ache, but Charles refused to admit defeat as easily as Shaw had. Perhaps it was because he'd arrived so recently. But then again, perhaps not. He'd seen Erik kick over the fire in their tent after losing a patient the other day.

 

“You need to open up his chest?” Logan asked.

 

“No, I can do it closed,” Charles replied.

 

“Good,” Erik called. “I'd rather not cut him open unless we have to.”

 

“Bag him every five beats,” Charles ordered. Shaw glowered, but complied.

 

“Wait. I'm getting a pulse,” Shaw said. “Good... Better... It's going.”

 

“Well done Chuck,” Logan called.

 

“I need a unit of whole blood,” Charles told Emma.

 

“I'm not going to forget this,” Shaw added.

 

“He did save the patient,” Emma admitted, setting up the blood.

 

“It was the way he did it,” Shaw sniffed.

 

_I don't know if you remember me mentioning dad, but Shaw and our head nurse Emma Frost are the worst kept secret in camp. The word around camp is that last week she received a delivery from the Hollywood Lingerie Company, courtesy of Shaw. One can only hope that the bill wasn't sent to his home address – I doubt Mrs Shaw would be too pleased to hear of him buying lingerie for someone else. Rumour ha it she has a fearsome temper and all the accounts in her name._

 

_Now that we're in a lull, the army has decided to ease our boredom, by insisting we receive our monthly morality lecture. Erik had informed me that the previous commander's lectures were legendary. Well, it's safe to say that Logan has taken the new title. The subject of the lecture was “marital sex”, and let me tell you, for a room where over half of the occupants were medical personnel, there were a lot of very red faces. Logan shoots straight from the shoulder, and does not hold back. At all. It's safe to say that Logan has sufficiently gone up in Sean's estimations – if only for all the tips he picked up!_

 

“Alright you bunch of jackasses,” Logan announced as he strode into the mess tent. “Now listen up. This month's topic is martial sex and the family.”

 

“Let's hear it for this month's topic,” Alex crowed, leading the audience in a round of applause.

 

“Can it, Summers,” Logan ordered.

 

“Hey, I got a date tonight,” Alex grinned. “I wanna learn as much as I can.”

 

“Cut the jokes, and let's get down to the sex,” Logan growled. Beside Charles, Erik snorted, barely containing his smirk. The two friends shared a smile and settled in for the lecture. Sean, meanwhile, darted up to Logan's side to uncover the two diagrams, labelled A and B with almost no discernible difference between the male and the female. “Okay, so you got your man and your woman.”

 

“I'm so glad I spent all those years in medical school,” Erik interjected.

 

“Now, according to the army, figures A and B are only supposed to partake in sex if you're married. However, unlike the army, I don't have fluff where my brain's supposed to be, and I know you lot are going at it like rabbits,” Logan continued. “So unless you're all looking to be parents – and looking forward to explaining that one to your wives back home – wear a condom. They invented those things for a reason. Use 'em. Now, on the matter of family reproduction, we're gonna look at how it all happens.”

 

Erik elbowed Charles to catch his attention, then nodded towards the front row where, Charles noticed, Sean sat gazing at Logan in rapturous admiration. They shared a glance and fought to avoid breaking into fits of laughter.

 

_Sean's our company clerk, a good kid who had earned the nickname Banshee. Believe me dad, he deserves it. I'm certain if we hit upon the correct frequency, he could shatter glass. It is most unpleasant when you're suffering from a hangover, particularly if you've been forced out of bed for duty. But other than that, Sean is a welcome relief around here, and a constant source of amusement. He lives in a constant state of flitting between fear and admiration of Erik, and though he would deny it until the end of time, I'm certain Erik has an almost parental fondness for the boy too._

 

_Sean's latest endeavour is one that is as old as the army itself. He is attempting to send home a jeep, one piece at a time. One of Washington's men probably did the same thing with a horse._

 

“Attention all personnel,” the PA crackled into life. Charles paused in writing, ready to leap into action if the call of wounded came. “The following personnel have volunteered to go on a ten mile fitness hike.”

 

Charles waited, wondering who on earth was crazy enough to volunteer for such an exercise.

 

Silence.

 

He chuckled to himself, then turned back to his letter.

 

_Our main problem around here is boredom. The army may teach you how to avoid VD is excruciating detail – or that may just be Logan's personal enjoyment – but they don't teach you how to deal with boredom. After a while, you just become immune to, well, everything. It's a little depressing actually dad. Which led to a little bet being made last week._

 

“Nothing phases anyone around here,” Erik grumbled. Charles raised an eyebrow at his bunkmate, who was sprawled across his own bunk. “It's as if the minute we put on the uniform, we stop existing as individuals and just become numbers.”

 

“You're in a fucking awesome mood today,” Alex observed from the pilot's chair. Charles chuckled, pouring them all martinis. He handed Alex and Erik theirs, then took the remaining two glasses back to his bunk, passing one to Hank.

 

“I'm telling you, it's true,” Erik insisted. “No one pays any attention to anything. I bet I could... I could walk across the compound and get lunch in the mess tent stark naked, and no one would blink.”

 

Privately, Charles suspected he would do a lot more than merely blink if Erik walked around naked. They lived in close quarters and the showers weren't exactly private; he already had a pretty good idea of what exactly was under Erik's uniform, and reminded himself that getting caught with another man in the army would result in, at best, a court martial and imprisonment.

 

“Don't be ridiculous,” Hank scoffed.

 

“I'm not being ridiculous,” Erik retorted. “It's a fact.”

 

“It's only a fact if there's proof,” Alex shrugged.

 

“Fifty bucks?” Erik offered.

 

“You're on,” Alex grinned.

 

Immediately Erik jumped to his feet and shrugged off his shirt. His t-shirt was quick to follow, but he paused before removing his trousers to retrieve the hat of his class A uniform from his footlocker. Then he stripped off the rest of his clothes, until he was left with only his combat boots, his hat and his dog tags. Charles tried very hard to picture literally anything else.

 

“Get your money ready,” Erik told Alex. Then he downed the last of his martini and left the Swamp.

 

Charles, Hank and Alex scrambled to follow, pausing in the door of the tent, lest they draw any further attention to Erik. To Alex's apparent disappointment, Erik made it all the way across the compound with nary a glance, even receiving a salute from a passing private. By the time they reached the mess tent, Erik was already in line for food, tray in hand.

 

“Damn,” Alex sighed.

 

They joined Erik in the line, ignoring his smug smile. Until suddenly there was the crash of a tray hitting the ground, followed in quick succession by several wolf whistles. Then the mess tent broke into rapturous applause. Alex grinned.

 

“Pay up,” he crowed.

 

“I left my pockets back in the Swamp,” Erik growled, before trying to salvage what little of his dignity was left with a tray.

 

_Suffice to say, boredom was not an issue for the next few days!_

 

_Sean provided us all with some entertainment the other day – intentionally this time! Lord preserve that boy, sometimes I experience a desire to wrap him up in cotton wool and protect him from the world, yet he's already been here for over a year. Certainly he's seen much more than I have in my short time here, yet somehow he manages to retain his innocence – drug habits aside of course!_

 

“What is this?” Erik asked, leaning back in his chair and kicking his feet up onto the desk.

 

“Hey! Lehnsherr, feet down,” Logan snapped. “Were you raised in a barn or something?”

 

Erik ignored him, choosing instead to lean back and tug on the door to the liquor cabinet.

 

“Why is this locked?”

 

“Because I don't trust you assholes,” Logan retorted.

 

“Sean, do you need a hand?” Charles asked.

 

“Nah, I'm good man,” Sean replied. “Done!” he announced, stepping back from the makeshift screen he'd created by pinning a sheet to the wall of Logan's office.

 

“Wait, are you seriously not going to share your booze with us?” Alex frowned.

 

“Yup,” Logan smirked.

 

“Bugger that,” Erik muttered. He sprinted out of the office, returning minutes later with a beaker full of gin from the still in one hand and two martini glasses in the other. He handed Charles the second glass and poured them each a generous helping.

 

“Hey! What about us?” Alex objected, indicating to himself, Hank and Sean.

 

“Get your own damn booze,” Erik smirked.

 

“What is this Banshee?” Alex asked, “How to make vaseline in combat?”

 

“No, it's a home movie,” Sean retorted, slotting the film into the projector.

 

“How to make vaseline at home?” Erik supplied. Charles poked him in the ribcage, and raised his eyebrows when Erik squirmed away from him. He had to bite back a smirk at the fact that the great Erik Lehnsherr, terror of the 4077th, was ticklish.

 

“It's Sunday dinner at my folk's house,” Sean explained. “My mom's in there and everything. Ready?”

 

“No feeling anyone up in the back row,” Alex called.

 

Charles privately thought that he wouldn't mind being in the back row of a movie theatre with Erik. On the screen, the film flickered into life, a black and white image of a modest suburban house with a crowd of civilians gather in front of the porch. Which then made Charles wonder when, exactly, he'd started referring to people as civilians or soldiers.

 

“How big is your family?” Erik exclaimed.

 

“We're Irish Catholic,” Sean shrugged.

 

“That explains it,” Logan replied. On screen, Sean's family began to wave at them. Erik and Charles exchanged a smile, then waved back, ignoring Logan's muttered, “Assholes.”

 

“There's my mom, and my dog Ranger,” Sean explained. “And that's my uncle David and my cousin Millie and my uncle Bill. _I love you Sean_ ,” he added, reading his mother's lips.

 

“Gee dad, talkies,” Alex joked.

 

“What are they doing?” Hank asked as they all began to salute.

 

“They're doing that because I'm in the army.”

 

“Since when?” Erik snorted.

 

“Oh my God,” Charles exclaimed, clutching Erik's forearm. “Look at that food!”

 

The camera had switched to focus on a long table full to burst with some of the best food Charles had ever seen. None of it was the gourmet food he'd grown up with, but frankly he didn't care. Several weeks of the army's finest had completely destroyed his palate – although he was willing to concede that Erik's homemade swill probably hadn't helped. At least it drowned out the taste of the mess tent's _plate du jour_.

 

“Chocolate cake,” Alex groaned.

 

“Yeah, my mom makes an awesome chocolate cake,” Sean sighed.

 

“Milk. Actual, real, non-powdered milk,” Erik gaped.

 

“I'd even eat those flowers,” Hank added. Charles nodded fervently. “What's in that bowl, Sean?” Hank asked.

 

“That fruit salad with little marshmallows in it,” Sean replied.

 

“What do they call that?” Erik asked.

 

“That fruit salad with the little marshmallows in it.”

 

Charles turned to Erik, to share a smile. It was only then that they realised he was still holding on to Erik's arm. They both stared at his hand for a second, before Charles jumped to remove it.

 

“Sorry,” he murmured.

 

“It's... It's fine,” Erik replied.

 

Charles mentally shook himself and forced himself to rejoin the conversation. When he was able to focus on the screen again, trying to banish any untoward thoughts from his mind, Sean's family had abandoned the table and were trooping back inside, carrying half empty dishes with them.

 

“What's this?” he asked.

 

“I think they're going in to listen to the radio,” Sean replied.

 

“Jack Benny,” Hank suggested.

 

“Fred Allen,” Logan added.

 

“ _Only the shadow knows_ ,” Alex quoted, before humming the theme song.

 

“Bye uncle Dave,” Sean said quietly. “That's my cousin Tom, he just started wearing those glasses. Bye Ranger.”

 

Then the camera held on Mrs Cassidy, whose facial features so mirrored her only son's. They watched in silence as she silently said, “I love you Sean.” When Charles glanced over his shoulder, he caught sight of Sean silently replying to his mother, and suddenly felt his throat tighten painfully. To his surprise, a warm hand closed briefly around his wrist, a silent squeeze of support from his left. Charles gaped at Erik through the darkness.

 

“So long Mrs Cassidy,” Alex called as the picture ended.

 

“Nice picture Banshee,” Logan said, his voice unusually gruff.

 

“Hey Logan?” Erik called, without tearing his eyes from Charles'. “If you don't give the order to cry, I will.”

 

_One of the things medical school fails to train you for, is the occasions when you receive a patient who has had an unexploded grenade shot into his body. It's like operating on a ticking time bomb, while praying that your patient doesn't blow up in your face. I really believe there must be an easier way to make four hundred and thirteen dollars and fifty cents a month._

 

_We had some trouble the other week with a patient named Kelly who had some, shall we say, rather unpleasant views. His injury was relatively mild – while it would be out of place in your surgery dad, around here it was the equivalent of an ingrown toenail – so he only required a local anaesthetic. Surgery is a strange place until you get used to it. We deal with it with humour, so I can understand it's a little unnerving for the patients – quite forgetting the fact that they've been injured._

 

“How are you doing?” Charles asked over Erik and Shaw's bickering at the next table.

 

“I'm okay,” Kelly replied.

 

“Ororo, I'm going to need another unit of your finest plasma, darling,” Charles said.

 

“Of course doctor,” Lieutenant Ororo Monroe replied.

 

Once Ororo left the table, Kelly spoke up again.

 

“Hey doc, make sure I get the right colour blood, yeah?” he pleaded. Charles frowned.

 

“What, blue as opposed to red?” he asked.

 

“No, you know what I mean,” Kelly said, his eyes flickering across the OR towards Ororo. “I'd hate to get any of that darkie stuff.”

 

It was like an ice cold hand had plunged itself into his stomach and taken hold of his guts. Charles stared at his patient, wishing he could do something, anything to show this bastard how ignorant and wrong he was.

 

Instead, he heard his voice replying, “Oh yeah. Sure.”

 

As soon as surgery was over, Charles headed straight back to the Swamp. He was pouring himself his second martini – having downed the first in one – when Erik entered, frowning at him.

 

“What's wrong?”

 

“Nothing,” Charles replied.

 

“Then stop drinking my booze,” Erik joked, although the humour was missing from his tone and Charles wasn't in the mood for laughter, causing it to fall flat. Erik navigated his way to Charles' side, gripping his shoulder. “What is it?”

 

“I just had a patient ask me to ensure he received the correct colour of blood,” Charles replied.

 

“Colour?” Erik frowned. “What on earth did he mean?”

 

“He was afraid we would give him the wrong colour of blood,” Charles said, lifting his gaze to meet Erik's. “Not white. But black.”

 

Erik's expression shifted from confusion to something much darker. In the few short weeks of their friendship, Charles had formed the distinct impression that Erik did not take any form of discrimination lightly.

 

“He was afraid of getting the wrong colour of blood,” Erik echoed, his voice terrifyingly void of emotion. Or it would have been terrifying, if Charles hadn't felt the exact same way. “Damn fool.”

 

Charles gulped down the rest of his martini.

 

“Erik, why don't we pay Kelly – that's his name – a little nocturnal visit?” he suggested. A slow smile spread across Erik's face. “Nothing violent,” Charles added. “Just a little reverse prejudice.”

 

“I'll drink to that.”

 

_So that night, while I was on duty, Erik came by and we decided to teach Kelly a lesson in tolerance._

 

“Which one's Kelly?” Erik asked, balancing the tray against his hip.

 

“Number nine,” Charles replied. “With the bedpan marked 'whites only'. He's still sedated.”

 

“Perfect.”

 

They moved to Kelly's bedside then Charles watched as Erik dipped some cotton wool into the tray.

 

“What did you use?” Charles asked as Erik began rubbing the mixture over Kelly's face.

 

“Tincture of iodine,” Erik replied. “Should last a few days. You want to do his hands?”

 

“With pleasure.”

 

The following afternoon, when Charles called in to Post-Op to check on another patient, he heard Kelly call out, “Hey nurse?”

 

“Yeah?” Alex replied.

 

“Did you see me when I came in?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Do I seem... darker now than I was then?”

 

Charles bit his lip. Alex, bless his scheming little heart, sounded the pinnacle of innocence when he replied, “I see what you mean. Shit, man, are you sure they gave you the right blood? I mean, it's happened before.”

 

Charles risked a glance over his shoulder and took great satisfaction in the look of terror on Kelly's face. So much so that he almost had to bury his fact in the notes he was reading to hide his laughter. He made eye contact with Ororo; she winked at him before crossing to Kelly's bed and picking up his notes.

 

“They've got you down as white,” she read, before offering Kelly a grin. “Good work baby.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Kelly demanded.

 

“Don't worry, I won't give you away,” she winked.

 

“Get out of here!”

 

“Watch your mouth, Sergeant,” Ororo snapped. “I'm a lieutenant; I don't care if you are passing.”

 

And with that, Charles had to leave and find Erik so they could dissolve into laughter together.

 

_The following day, Erik and I had a little conversation with Kelly._

 

Erik entered post-op with a mess tent tray covered with a cloth. He offered Charles a wink, before taking a seat by Kelly's bedside.

 

“How are you feeling Sergeant?”

 

“I want to talk to you doctor,” Kelly snapped.

 

“Why don't you have some food first?” Erik suggested with a shit-eating grin. “Best medicine in the world. You ordered fried chicken and watermelon, right?”

 

He pulled the cloth off of the tray with a flourish as Charles joined them.

 

“I didn't order that!” Kelly insisted. “What are you trying to do to me? You gave me the wrong colour of blood!”

 

“All blood is the same,” Erik snapped. “Ever hear of Doctor Charles Drew?”

 

“Who's that?”

 

“Dr Drew discovered the process for drawing blood so that it can be stored,” Charles explained. “Plasma. He died last April after a car accident in North Carolina.”

 

“He bled to death,” Erik explained. “The hospital wouldn't let him in. It was for whites only.”

 

Kelly gaped at them. Erik stood, shoving his hands into the pockets of his white coat.

 

“Enjoy your chicken.”

 

_When Kelly received orders to rejoin his unit, I saw him give Ororo a salute, which she returned before wishing him luck. I cannot say that I believe him truly reformed thanks to our little stunt, however I hope we've given him some food for thought._

 

_Well dad, I'm afraid that's it from me for today. Give my best to everyone, and I hope to see you soon. For all our sakes._

 

_Your son,_

 

_Charles_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the original episode of MASH (Dear Dad Three, Series 2) the story of Charles Drew's death is told as it is in this story. However, although it was a popular myth at the time, Charles Drew did not die because he was refused a blood transfusion. In fact, it is argued that a transfusion would have killed him sooner. I decided however to keep the story in because it makes a good point nevertheless, and I felt that storyline fitted well with Erik and Kelly's characters.


	3. The Late Captain Lehnsherr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bureaucratic mistake leaves the army thinking Erik is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I'm so sorry for the delay. I hope it's worth it.

“Captain... Hey Captain, wake up... Yo, Charles.”

 

Charles groaned and curled in on himself, trying to get away from whatever it was that was making that noise and shaking him. But it didn't cease. He squinted with one eye half open, making out Sean's red curls through the darkness.

 

“Sean?” he grumbled. “What is it? Wounded?”

 

Sean shook his head.

 

“Phone call. For you.”

 

“What?” Charles frowned. “A phone call?”

 

“Yeah, from the States,” Sean nodded.

 

“Who?” Charles asked, pushing himself up and searching for his boots. The only person he could conceivably see attempting to call him in Korea was his father, and that was only if there was a serious emergency.

 

But Sean shook his head, instead replying, “Lehnsherr's kid.”

 

Charles gaped at him, one boot hanging half on his foot.

 

“What? Why on earth would Erik's daughter be calling me? Isn't she six?”

 

Sean shrugged. Charles picked up his pillow and tossed it at Erik. There was a muffled squawk then Erik's head appeared, his hair sticking up in all directions as he glowered blearily, looking more like a baby owl than the intimidating monster he was no doubt channelling.

 

“Wassup?” he muttered.

 

“Apparently your daughter is calling me,” Charles replied.

 

“Nina?” Erik said, suddenly wide awake and scrabbling for his coat.

 

“You're sure she wanted to talk to me?” Charles asked Sean, wrapping his scarf around his neck before snatching his hat from his foot locker.

 

“Oh yeah. She was very clear on that. Almost terrifyingly so.”

 

“Sounds like Nina,” Erik shrugged. “What time is it in the States?”

 

“It's two am here, and they're eighteen hours behind,” Charles replied, “So eight am?”

 

They hurried across the compound after Sean, huddling into their coats against the biting wind. In his office, Sean held out the phone towards Charles; Charles hesitated, glancing towards Erik. But Erik waved him away.

 

“She wants to talk to you.”

 

Charles took a seat and held the phone to his ear.

 

“Hello?” he said. The line was terrible, full of static, no doubt thanks to the gale rattling the building outside. “Nina?”

 

“Doctor Xavier?” a small voice asked.

 

“Yes, that's me. What is it Nina?”

 

Erik watched worriedly as Charles strained to hear. He desperately wanted to snatch the phone from Charles and speak to his baby himself, but he resisted. Nina wanted to talk to Charles; she would do so, and then he could talk to her. He could forgo sleep for a little longer for her.

 

“I'm sorry, what was that?” Charles frowned. “Nina? Nina?” He put down the phone. “We were cut off,” he explained.

 

“What did she say?” Erik asked.

 

“ _Why and how_?” Charles replied.

 

Erik stared at him, perplexed.

 

“Why and how?” he repeated.

 

“Yes,” Charles nodded. “I think she sounded upset, but the line was terrible. I'm sorry Erik.”

 

“Not your fault,” he shook his head. “Sean, can you try and get her back?”

 

“I'll do my best boss.”

 

Sean couldn't, as it turned out. The weather was just too bad for them to get a call through to America. Still, Erik decided to wait it out, camping out in Sean's desk chair just in case the phone rang again, lulled to sleep by the sound of Sean's whistling snores after he sent Charles back to the Swamp.

 

 

X

 

 

“Any luck?” Charles asked, looking up from his breakfast as Erik sat down.

 

“No,” Erik sighed.

 

“I'm sure it's nothing to worry about,” Charles said.

 

“She really didn't say anything other than why and how?” Erik frowned.

 

“That's it,” Charles nodded. He reached across the table and squeezed his friend's gloved hand. “I'm sure we'll be able to get through to her or your ex-wife today and sort this out.”

 

“Thanks,” Erik managed a small smile.

 

Charles returned it, then he realised he was still holding Erik's hand, and quickly retracted his own hand, awkwardly folding it in his lap. Suddenly he had an epiphany.

 

“I have an idea, why don't you send a telegram?” he suggested. “I know you'd rather speak to her in person, but it's better than nothing, right?”

 

Erik grinned.

 

“Charles, you're a genius.”

 

Abandoning their breakfasts, which Charles decided was no real loss, the two doctors sprinted across the compound to Sean's office, where they found the company clerk dealing with a mountain of paperwork that balanced precariously on the edge of his desk.

 

“Banshee, I want to send a telegram to my daughter,” Erik said.

 

“Sorry. Can't,” Sean shrugged.

 

“Banshee, I am going to stick my hand down your throat and pull out your intestines if I hear that word again,” Erik growled.

 

Charles placed a placating hand on Erik's shoulder.

 

“What Erik means to say is _please_ ,” he added.

 

“I'd love to help,” Sean replied, “And not just because I kinda like my intestines where they are, but I really can't. No phone calls or telegrams. For anybody.”

 

“Why?” Erik snapped.

 

“President Eisenhower's coming to visit,” Sean shrugged. “There's a whole new load of security measures. Secret service, MPs; they're even locking up a whole load of South Koreans.”

 

Erik ran his hands through his hair, becoming visibly tenser as the seconds passed.

 

“What about the Red Cross?” Charles suggested quickly. “Could they help?”

 

“Nope. Sorry,” Sean replied. “No phone calls, no telegrams. The only way any communication's getting out of here is by carrier pigeon. You know, provided it doesn't get shot down.”

 

With a growl, Erik turned and stormed out of the building, the door clattering closed behind him.

 

“Thanks Sean,” Charles sighed. “You don't happen to have a carrier pigeon, do you?”

 

“Do you think a carrier guinea pig would work?”

 

“No. But thanks for the offer,” Charles smiled.

 

“I'll keep trying,” Sean offered.

 

“Thank you,” Charles smiled, then followed his errant bunkmate to the Swamp. However he was derailed by a particularly slimy looking individual who jumped out of the bus parked in the compound.

 

“Hey, I'm Lieutenant Toynbee, from the Quartermaster Corps, morgue detail,” he introduced himself. “Folks call me Toad. Who do I see about a body?”

 

“Corporal Cassidy, in there,” Charles replied, then continued towards the Swamp.

 

There, he found Erik angrily throwing his shaving kit back into his wash bag and throwing his towel over his shoulder as if it had personally offended him. Charles avoided the furious pouting and poured himself a mug of coffee from the pot of the stove, silently thanking Hank for filling it before he left for duty.

 

“Sean's going to keep trying,” he offered, “Just in case.”

 

“Thanks,” Erik muttered. “Come find me if he gets through?”

 

Charles smiled at the quiet desperation in Erik's voice. For all he played the hard man, the emotionless machine, it never fooled Charles. In fact, he couldn't see how it fooled anyone. Erik clearly felt everything very keenly. It was an attractive quality. But unfortunately a painful one during a war.

 

“In the shower?” he teased.

 

Erik's eyes brightened ever so slightly, appreciating how Charles didn't make a big thing of his moment of weakness.

 

“I'll be the one wearing the white carnation,” he replied, the corners of his mouth twitching.

 

 

X

 

 

Hot water was a precious commodity in a war zone. And on a day like today, when the wind had a particularly vicious bite, Erik said a silent prayer in thanks when he yanked on the shower and the water that hit his chest was warm. The lack of privacy in the showers had grated when he first arrived – hell, the lack of privacy _everywhere_ had grated, from the tent too small for four grown men, all the way down to the too close for comfort shower cubicles. But the other cubicle was blissfully empty, and Erik wondered if this was the universe's way of making up for the mysterious phonecall from Nina.

 

However, it was clearly not to be, as he heard the door open the clatter closed, footsteps rounding the cubicles. Wiping the water from his eyes, Erik found himself being watched by a gum chewing stranger. Erik frowned. The stranger peered into the empty cubicle, then wandered around, apparently intent on doing the same thing to Erik's.

 

“Trust me, I'm alone,” Erik growled.

 

“I'm looking for Lehnsherr. Captain Lehnsherr?”

 

“You found him.”

 

“You can't be Lehnsherr,” the stranger insisted.

 

“I'm him,” Erik glared.

 

“Something's wrong.”

 

“No war is perfect.”

 

“You're the only Lehnsherr in camp?”

 

“Yes,” Erik replied.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Pretty damn.”

 

“You're not dead.”

 

“Thank you for the observation,” Erik rolled his eyes.

 

“You're supposed to be dead,” the stranger insisted.

 

Erik froze. Then, coming back to life, he dunked his head under the water to rinse off the soap, turning to glower at the stranger – who, it appeared, was very strange indeed.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You're supposed to be dead, sir. Honest.”

 

Then the stranger held out what Erik instantly recognised as a death certificate. Erik snatched it from him and read it.

 

Then read it again.

 

And again.

 

 _Schiesse_.

 

 

X

 

 

“My voluntary calisthenics programme isn't working out, sir,” Shaw complained.

 

Logan barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of all the jackasses in the army, he had to get stuck with this one as his second in command. He just thanked his lucky stars that his predecessor had had enough presence of mind to name Lehnsherr as chief surgeon over Shaw.

 

“I'd like to make it compulsory,” Shaw continued. “I find people volunteer much better by force.”

 

“You and McCarthy both,” Logan grunted. The door opened and Sean appeared, passing the mail to Logan, who nodded in reply. Then he frowned, noticing the top envelope. “Hey Cassidy, why does this look like it's been opened?”

 

“No idea, sir,” Sean replied before making a hasty retreat.

 

Logan's eyes narrowed, then jammed his cigar between his teeth and turned his attention to the mail.

 

“Sir, I'm serious,” Shaw snapped.

 

“Can it, Shaw,” Logan snapped. “Go do some push ups if you're so worried about staying in shape.”

 

He pulled the letter from the envelope and had just started to read when the door banged open, and he was confronted by a wet and furious Erik Lehnsherr.

 

“Lehnsherr hasn't exercised once, hasn't done so much as a squat thrust,” Shaw declared. “Far be it from me to tell you how to run your command sir-”

 

“Very far be it,” Logan growled.

 

“But,” Shaw continued, because never had Logan met a man with less self preservation skills, “I personally think you should order gaolbreaks like Lehnsherr to get out there.”

 

“Sorry, can't,” Erik retorted. “I'm dead.”

 

“You look good for it,” Logan grunted. “Wanna tell me what's got your shorts in a bunch?”

 

“Colonel!” Shaw whined.

 

“Shaw, I don't give a damn about your calisthenics programme. Now get out of here while I deal with Lehnsherr here before he drips everywhere and makes my office mouldy.”

 

Shaw left with a huff, and Logan turned his attention back to Erik, who instantly thrust a piece of paper at him.

 

“The army has declared me dead,” he snapped.

 

Logan lifted the slightly damp piece of paper. His eyebrows raised as he read _Death Certificate_ followed by _Name: Lehnsherr, E. M_.

 

“Damn paper pushers,” he muttered. “Sean!”

 

“You bellowed?” Sean said, sticking his head round the door.

 

“Lehnsherr's dead,” Logan snapped. “Find out why.”

 

Sean frowned, glancing between Logan and Erik, who was dripping a puddle on the floor.

 

“This Lehnsherr?” he asked. Erik growled in a way that suggested he'd heard that question entirely too many times that morning. “On it!” Sean cried.

 

“Don't stress bub, we'll fix it,” Logan assured him.

 

“They notified my ex-wife,” Erik said, and Logan noticed his voice had changed, taking on a slightly desperate hitch. “My daughter thinks I'm dead.”

 

“Jesus. Can't they get anything right?” Logan sighed. “Look, we're gonna do everything we can to get this straightened out ASAP. Go find Xavier, take a shot of that swill you make, and breathe. We'll fix it.”

 

As much as Erik wanted to stay right where he was and yell at Logan until this disaster was fixed, the commanding officer's suggestion sounded tempting. The part about finding Charles that was. He had a sudden urge to find his friend, to hear his soothing accent and assurances that all would be well in the world. Usually he found those assurances irritating because _clearly Charles the world was not alright, just look around, we're in a war zone dammit_. But right now, with the knowledge that his baby girl was out there, believing her papa was dead, Erik desperately wanted to hear Charles tell him it was all alright. So he stormed out of the office, across the compound and into the Swamp.

 

He yanked the towel from his shoulders and began viciously rubbing his hair dry.

 

“Bad shower?” Charles' voice asked, sounding amused. “Someone steal your soap again?”

 

“No,” Erik replied, his voice muffled by the towel. “I'm dead.”

 

“Pardon?” Charles laughed.

 

Erik re-emerged from the towel, dropping it back onto his shoulders. Sure enough, Charles was watching him with a bemused if fond smile from his own bunk. Erik experienced a sudden urge to fall down beside his friend and bury his face in his neck, startling himself with the strength of emotion. And instantly pushed it back down to where it was safely hidden.

 

“I'm dead,” he repeated. “The army has declared me dead. And there's a gravedigger hanging around for my corpse and he is most displeased that I'm still using it.”

 

“You're serious,” Charles realised.

 

“Deadly.”

 

“And that explains the phonecall,” he realised.

 

Erik nodded, offering a grim smile.

 

“Oh blast,” Charles muttered. He left his bunk, perching next to Erik on his cot. “Please tell me they're trying to contact your ex-wife immediately?”

 

“Logan's put Sean on it,” Erik replied. “But considering what we've already tried, I'm not sure how successful he'll be.”

 

“He'll get through,” Charles said. “I know he will.”

 

And there it was. The patented Charles Xavier optimism. Exactly what Erik hated, and exactly what he needed to hear right now.

 

“Thanks,” he murmured.

 

Charles smiled. Then he broke into a grin, his eyes twinkling in a way that Erik had learned only ever led to very bad – and by bad, read good – things.

 

“We have to have a wake,” he declared. “What kind of a friend would I be if I let you go without some sort of celebration? I'll even ask Logan if he'll send Shaw off to Seoul for the night. A funeral present, as it were.”

 

“You're insane,” Erik shook his head, a smile creeping onto his face despite himself.

 

“Probably,” Charles agreed. “What do you say?”

 

“Alright. Put me down for half,” Erik agreed.

 

“Oh no, this wake's on me,” Charles insisted.

 

“What do you wear to your own wake?” Erik mused.

 

“How about that tacky Hawaiian shirt?” Charles suggested with a straight face. “Lord knows it should've died at birth.”

 

And he ducked to avoid Erik cuffing him on the head.

 

 

X

 

 

“ _Attention all personnel. Come one, come all to a wake for the late, great Captain Lehnsherr. We'll be mourning all afternoon and evening. The guests will delivery the eulogy, and the guests will have twenty minutes for rebuttal. Remains to be seen in the Swamp.”_

 

 

X

 

 

“This is a great party,” Erik observed, snatching a handful of popcorn from the bowl that was being passed around the packed Swamp. “I only wish I was here to see it.”

 

“I sure will miss you Erik,” Marie smiled.

 

Erik grinned. She's always been one of his favourite nurses, both to work with and to flirt with. Mostly because she wasn't afraid to stand up to him and put him in his place.

 

“We all will,” he replied. “I'm donating my shoulder to the wheel, my nose to the grindstone, and my ear to the ground, but I only have eyes for you.”

 

Marie levelled him with an extremely unimpressed look, turning away to talk to Raven. Then Charles appeared at his side.

 

“My friend, that was truly terrible,” Charles chuckled, holding out a beer.

 

“Not my finest work, I admit,” Erik shrugged. “But it's better than what Alex is trying on the poor nurse from the 8063rd.”

 

“Isn't he engaged to your sister?”

 

“Yes. I think. It's hard to keep up, they're on and off so often.”

 

Then Erik's face fell, even as laughter echoed around the tent after Sean realised he was on fire, a peril of sitting on the stove for too long. Only Charles noticed his gloomy expression, frowning at his sudden change in mood.

 

“Erik?”

 

And suddenly the tent was stifling, too warm with too many people, too loud, too raucous, too happy.

 

“Excuse me,” he muttered, turning away from Charles and slipping out of the tent with no one noticing. Well, all but one.

 

Erik huddled into his coat as he crossed the compound to the edge of the camp, staring out into the black of the night and wishing he was hundreds of miles away in his home in San Fransisco. He heard the crunch of boots on gravel approaching, and knew without turning around that it would be Charles. Sure enough.

 

“Erik? What's wrong?” Charles asked.

 

“I just... I just realised that Lorna probably thinks I'm dead too,” he replied. “My parents are gone. Apart from Nina, she's my next of kin. They probably informed her first. My baby sister thinks she's lost her whole family in one war or another.”

 

He squeezed his eyes shut, torn between breaking down and crying, or screaming himself hoarse in anger. A few frustrated tears managed to slip out.

 

Then suddenly a warm hand covered his own frozen fingers. Erik opened his eyes, staring at Charles' hand covering his own.

 

“We will fix this, they will find out you're alive, this will not go on forever,” Charles stated, his voice low and calm yet with a core of steel that promised action. “The security measures will lift and you can call your daughter and your sister and tell them that you, Erik Lehnsherr, are not dead. I promise.”

 

Erik couldn't find the words to thank Charles, despite the wave of gratitude that threatened to engulf him at being thrown a life preserver. But even so, he felt sure that Charles understood. And he couldn't stop staring at Charles' hand holding his.

 

“Oh, sorry,” Charles said, and began to pull his hand away, and Erik realised that Charles had mistaken his staring as discomfort.

 

“Don't,” he said, his voice raw from the unshed tears. Charles paused. “Don't,” Erik repeated, quieter.

 

So Charles didn't. He just held Erik's hand in the cold and silence, and Erik stared at their hands and tried to ignore the fact that he was somehow simultaneously feeling entirely broken and more whole than ever before.

 

 

X

 

 

When Erik woke, Hank was sitting in the airplane seat writing a letter.

 

“I'm writing my mom about your death,” he said by way of greeting. “Any messages?”

 

“No,” Erik grunted, feeling the force of his hangover, which wasn't actually that severe. However he felt strangely numb and stuffy that he somehow related to his and Charles' talk outside. “I'll add and RIPS later.”

 

The door opened, and both doctors shivered at the blast of cold air.

 

“Shut the damn door, Shaw,” Erik growled.

 

“I don't talk to goof-off corpses,” Shaw retorted.

 

“What corpses do you talk to?” Hank asked and Erik smirked.

 

“You've carried this death lark far enough,” Shaw continued.

 

“I haven't begun to die yet,” Erik grinned. “Being dead gets me out of orientation classes, inspections, OD duty-”

 

“My body building course,” Shaw finished. “I'm no dunce.”

 

Erik bit back a chuckle as Hank made a noise of disagreement in the back of his throat. At times like these, he could really see himself liking the younger doctor. Shaw harrumphed indignantly, then stormed out, letting another blast of winter air into the tent and nearly colliding with Sean.

 

“Watch it!” Shaw snarled.

 

Sean threw a hasty salute, yanking the door closed behind him.

 

“What's got his short in a bunch?”

 

“Shaw was born with his shorts in a bunch,” Erik grunted. “The doctors tried to have them removed at birth, but they were wedged too far up there.”

 

“Is that mail?” Hank asked, stealing the pile of envelopes from Sean's grasp.

  
“Hey! Watch it!” Sean warned.

 

“Any luck getting through to my daughter yet?” Erik asked.

 

“No – oi – no,” Sean replied, retrieving the mail from Hank, minus his own two letters. “Sorry Erik. Still no dice. Eisenhower.”

 

“Makes me glad I never voted for him,” Erik grumbled. “Where's my mail?”

 

Sean hesitated in a way that Erik knew meant that he had bad news and didn't want to share.

 

“Banshee?”

 

“They stopped your mail,” Sean explained after taking a step back. “On account of you being...”

 

“Banshee, I need my mail,” Erik snapped.

 

“I'm working on it!”

 

 

X

 

 

“Next.”

 

Whoever had decided it was a good idea to give Shaw a clipboard clearly needed to take a good, hard look at their life choices. And possibly be assigned latrine duty for a month. At least that was Charles' opinion. The man had enough of a power complex as it was. Handing him a clipboard and control over the payroll was like granting him permission to do his best Genghis Khan impression.

 

“Hello Sebastian,” Charles smiled, stepping up to the table and receiving an unimpressed look from Shaw.

 

“Name and serial number,” Shaw instructed. “We do this by the book, or we don't do this at all.”

 

Charles sighed.

 

Of course.

 

“Xavier, C.F, Captain. Three nine seven two nine nine six six.”

 

Shaw handed him a pen and the clipboard to sign.

 

“This pen doesn't work,” Charles pointed out.

 

“Of course it does,” Shaw snapped. He snatched back the pen, shaking it; ink flew out, splattering across the pay sheet. “You did that on purpose,” Shaw declared.

 

“Yes, it is within my power to control ink,” Charles deadpanned, signing his name. “In my spare time, I've also mastered telepathy.”

 

“Very funny, wise ass.”

 

“I try,” Charles smirked, accepting his pay.

 

He stepped back, shoving his cash into his trouser pockets, while Erik stepped up to the table. He tuned out of Erik and Shaw's banter, already far too accustomed to the two surgeons animosity. And yes, Shaw was terrible, but Erik wasn't exactly extending any olive branches either. And he could never resist an opportunity to drive Shaw mad.

 

“Come on Shaw, lay it on me,” Erik's voice broke through his thoughts.

 

“Sorry Lehnsherr, you've been red lined,” Shaw replied, holding up his clipboard as evidence.

 

Charles frowned, suddenly paying attention.

 

“What?”

 

“You're deceased, you're off the payroll,” Shaw smirked. “If you're too dead for calisthenics, you're too dead for pay. Next!”

 

“Wait a minute,” Erik snapped. “I need that money. I have a kid to support. It's not like I can find another job elsewhere. God knows I would if I could.”

 

“So being dead isn't as much fun as you thought it would be, huh?” Shaw grinned.

 

And with that Erik lunged across the table at him, and probably would've succeeded in smacking Shaw, if Charles hadn't grabbed his friend just in time.

 

“Let me go, Charles!” Erik growled.

 

“Don't be an idiot, Erik,” Charles hissed, and dragged him outside.

 

Erik yanked himself free, glowering at Charles, who planted himself firmly between Erik and the mess tent door.

 

“I need that money,” Erik spat. “ _Nina_ needs that money.”

 

“You and I both know that Shaw's never going to show you any sort of leniency,” Charles retorted. He pulled out his own pay. “If you need money, then here.”

 

Erik stared at him.

 

“I'm not going to take your money, Charles. I worked for that pay. I spent that last month up to my elbow in the blood of children for that money. I am not going to accept hand outs from my friend.”

 

“Why not? It's not as though I need it,” Charles pointed out. “I'm disgustingly rich, with no dependents and no family apart from my father, who has more money than I do. In the meantime, take the damn money and pay me back once you're declared alive and well again.”

 

Erik continued to stare at him, and Charles readied himself for a fight. But then he looked at Erik, really looked at him, and saw the way Erik swallowed, saw the way his eyes were turning red, saw the way he pursed his lips.

 

“Charles... I can't do this,” he admitted in a choked whisper. “I can't stand here and do nothing while my baby thinks I lied to her.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Charles asked, stepping closer so he could grip Erik's elbow.

 

“I promised Nina I'd come home,” Erik explained. “I promised I'd come home safely.”

 

“Dangerous promise,” Charles murmured.

 

“She's out there, right now, believing I lied to her,” Erik continued. “I can't do this.”

 

“Oh Erik,” Charles sighed, and gathered the other man into his arms. Erik's head fell forward onto Charles' shoulder, and he could feel his shoulders heaving with silent sobs. “It's going to be okay,” Charles promised, holding him tightly and running what he hoped was a soothing hand over Erik's spine. “It's going to be okay.”

 

 

X

 

 

“We have good news Lehnsherr,” Logan announced.

 

“You managed to get through to my daughter?” Erik asked Sean.

 

“Uh, no,” the clerk replied, shrinking back from the intensity of Erik's gaze.

 

“But he did manage to get through to I-Corps,” Logan continued.

 

“Yeah, they told me what we have to do to fix this,” Sean explained. “All we gotta do is fill out some paperwork to prove that you're not dead.”

 

“That doesn't sound too bad,” Erik admitted. Perhaps this would be fixed before the day was out. Then, even if he couldn't get through to Nina thanks to Eisenhower's visit, at least she would receive word that he was still alive and that this had all been a terrible mix up.

 

“So apparently somebody switched your name with the name of a deceased patient on a death certificate,” Sean explained. “Apparently it happens all the time.”

 

“Comforting,” Erik said.

 

“Yeah, so,” Sean continued, “We have to submit a request for the quartermaster to rescind the certificate of death on DA form ten stroke two four nine – in triplicate – accompanied by an SF eighty eight stroke one oh seven signed by three officers of equal or higher rank, followed by a personal written report on form sixty three stroke EBY by a ranking officer who actually saw the deceased not die. In triplicate.”

 

“Jesus Christ,” Logan declared.

 

“And what does all this mean when you boil it down?” Erik growled.

 

“Kid, that is boiled down,” Logan grunted.

 

“This could take weeks stroke months,” Erik exclaimed. “By the time the army decides I'm alive again, I could be dead! And in the meantime my daughter is out there believing she no longer has a father. My ex-wife is trying to figure out how to raise a daughter alone, without any financial support. I have no mail, no money, and my own personal undertaker out there with his hearse double parked. Screw this.”

 

“Lehnsherr. Where you going?” Logan called as Erik stalked out.

 

“I'm late for my own funeral,” Erik retorted.

 

 

X

 

 

Charles entered the Swamp and found Erik hastily shoving the contents of his footlocker into a bag. He frowned.

 

“What's going on?”

 

“The war's over,” Erik grunted.

 

“I must've missed that announcement,” Charles replied. “Was it before or after the one about the blocked latrine?”

 

“This death certificate's my ticket home,” Erik said. “If you're ever in San Francisco look me up.”

 

“Wait. What?” Charles frowned. “Erik, slow down.”

 

“No. I've waited long enough,” Erik replied. “I'm going home. To my daughter.”

 

Then he swung the bag onto his shoulder and marched out of the tent. Charles gawked at the door, then hurried after him. He jogged over the frozen compound to catch up with Erik's longer stride. By the time he reached him, Erik was hammering on the door of the ambulance that had been parked outside Sean's office since Toad rolled in three days ago.

 

“Toad! Open up!” Erik called.

 

“Erik, wait,” Charles pleaded, but Erik ignored him, stepping onto the ambulance as soon as Toad opened the door.

 

“What's up doc?” Toad asked.

 

“The final reward and step on it,” Erik said. “Where do I sit?”

 

“Nobody sits on this bus but me,” Toad shrugged.

 

Charles glanced down the aisle, and felt his heart break a little at the sheer number of bodies lying wrapped up on the stretchers. And the worst part of all was the knowledge that these seven were nothing in the grand scale of the war. Erik moved down to the spare stretcher and lay down.

 

“I can't take passengers, sir,” Toad called.

 

“I'm not a passenger. I'm cargo,” Erik grunted, covering his face with his forearm.

 

Charles hesitated. Surely Toad wouldn't actually _leave_ with Erik onboard, would he? Before he could decide what to do, Sean appeared at his side.

 

“Hey doc, casualties coming in,” he informed him. “A lot.”

 

“When isn't there?” Charles sighed as Sean disappeared. He climbed onto the bus, repressing the shiver that rolled down his back, and shuffled down the aisle to Erik's side. He'd always hated morgue duty. “Erik,” he said softly.

 

He received a grunt in reply.

 

“It's me.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You really think this will work?” Charles asked.

 

Erik sighed.

 

“I'm done, Charles. I'm going home. I'm finally going home. I've been fighting death since the day I arrived. I'm tired of death. I'm tired _to_ death.”

 

“There's wounded coming in,” Charles said.

 

“I don't care,” Erik replied, removing his arm from his face and Charles _ached_ to see the hollowness in Erik's eyes. “They'll keep coming. Whether I'm here or not, there will always be more wounded. Darwin went home, still they come. McCone's dead, and still they come. My presence won't stop them coming.”

 

“No,” Charles agreed. “But it could stop them dying.”

 

“I'm already dead,” Erik said with a humourless smile. Then he rolled onto his back and covered his face again.

 

A lump wedged itself in Charles' throat. He was not ready to say goodbye to Erik. The scary thing was, he wasn't sure if he'd ever be ready.

 

“I'll miss you,” he murmured, then turned and left the ambulance. He watched it roll out of the compound as he heard the choppers approach, his eyes stinging. Charles swiped away the moisture in the corner of his eyes. When he looked up again, the ambulance had stopped, just outside camp, in-front of Rosie's bar. Then it started again, trundling down the icy road.

 

And there, standing where the ambulance sat moments before, was Erik.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me rambling on tumblr here: https://weethreequarter.tumblr.com


End file.
